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Poem Fighting Sleep

A big black horse is very rude to me.

I know. It wasn’t. And then choke. But before the birds started.
Then they creaked alongside the west wall of the room.
And in the interim.

And in the interim.

Bound by wool and nestled into snow. I vigil at burping pipes,
meditate all the way through indignation.

With or without.

And by now, I have to lie down and take my pants off.
In steam and serrated grasses, a sudden optimism
the form of a blank
chalkboard. A hand slowly sweeping across it.

Face down, snow about to fall, the baby I was—
no long day at the tomato factory to exhaust me.
No concerns except a voice absent:
one to cry for.

If interested in this future absurd encounter, blink once.

Posted 11/13/09
Comments (1)
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Excellent title, and I am always entertained by this kind of writing at the edge of sleep and dream. Here is one more way, very effective because not so night-shadowy, to do it.
12/01/09 10:49pm